


entoptic phenomena

by KuroFae



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Anxiety, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Autism, Autistic Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), CWs in notes, Canon Autistic Character, Character Study, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Extended Metaphors, Good Significant Other Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Good Significant Other Cecil Palmer, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Metaphors, Panic Attacks, this is mostly a study in neurodivergence and communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24106339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuroFae/pseuds/KuroFae
Summary: [A Spy in the Desert ‘Secret’ Spoilers]“There is so much to fear in Night Vale,” Cecil says, and he’s whispering now, and Carlos reaches up to cradle his face in his hands. “But only because there is so much tolove.”Esteban is a bright spot against the horrors of Night Vale, and Carlos and Cecil have conversations in their kitchen.
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer
Comments: 17
Kudos: 60





	entoptic phenomena

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is extremely not in chronological order, but it does cover major events, secrets, and spoilers from a Spy in the Desert. It also contains spoilers for the main show up to and including 163: Bravo. It references the first novel, It Devours!, All Hail!, and Condos. Additionally, this fic assumes that Night Vale has a population of around 20 to 30 thousand people; enough that most people wouldn’t be able to recognize Cecil on the street even though they all know his voice.
> 
> CWs for panic attacks, anxiety, bad sensory days, the combination of bad sensory days and anxiety, rejection sensitivity disorder, emetophobia, trypophobia, and children in danger. The emetophobia is only gagging, the trypophobia is a metaphor and not literal, and ‘children in danger’ is only a concept, there’s no actual scenes based around this.
> 
> A huge thank you to @[maggiebarbara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiebarbara/pseuds/maggiebarbara) for the beta and to the person in the NVRR server who helped me with cultural stuff! You've since left the server and I couldn't find your tumblr, but you know who you are and feel free to [message me](http://kurofae.tumblr.com/ask) if you want me to put your name in. You were both such huge helps!

* * *

**Entoptic phenomena (from Greek ἐντός "within" and ὀπτικός "visual"):** Visual effects whose source is within the eye itself.

* * *

It’s not that Carlos is hiding him. 

It’s not, and he knows that. He knows that everyone around him understands that, too. Carlos is the furthest thing from ashamed. Scientifically speaking, that is. It is impossible for him to be less ashamed. In fact, he is proud. _Incredibly_ proud. He is _ecstatic_. He wants to do the opposite of hide him. He wants to climb up on the stage at city hall where he gave that first press conference to Night Vale. He wants to raise him above his head and shout up into the void that circles endlessly overhead that he is proud, that he is euphoric, that he is _rhapsodic_. He wants to stand in the light of day, and hold him up until he is haloed by the desert sun, and shout and proclaim and exalt his praises to the flashing lights of the Glow Cloud and the glinting sunlight off the sand and gleaming eyes of every citizen in Night Vale like he is in the spotlight of the angels, stripped bright and bare and so very _visible_. 

But Carlos is also not from Night Vale.

And Carlos knows fear. 

Which is not to imply that the citizens of Night Vale _don’t_ know fear. Empirically, they do. Carlos has generated the data himself. He’s measured cortisol, and pupil diameter, and heart rate, and a half dozen other physiological metrics. He’s drawn charts and wrote down numbers in neat little columns and even made a _spreadsheet_. On _Microsoft Excel_. He’s done the science. And Cecil’s done the philosophy.

* * *

> “It’s because you love him, Carlos,” Cecil says, rubbing between Carlos’ scapulae as he bends over the kitchen sink. The water is running, cool and clear, but Carlos feels hot, sticky, and defiled, like he’s covered in gritty tar, or coagulated blood, or guilt. "Of course you don't want to put him in danger by talking about him on the radio."
> 
> “I-” Carlos starts, and then leans back over the sink as he retches again. Gags on the many-limbed, crawling creature of culpability at the back of his throat. Cecil gathers his hair out of his face, holds it tight in a bundle at the back of his neck.
> 
> Carlos lets himself collapse forward until his forehead is pressed into the cool metal of the edge of the sink. He lets himself shake. He lets himself sob because crying is a physiological release, and not because he thinks he is the victim. He isn’t the one done wrong by.
> 
> “Baby,” Cecil says, for what must be the twelfth time in as many minutes, “listen to me, Carlos. It’s a good decision, sweetheart.”
> 
> Carlos feels fuzzy. Above his head, there’s a crystal hanging from a chain, dangling in front of the window above their sink. It catches the light, and throws sunspots in his eyes. He feels distant. He feels like he’s defending his dissertation. The lights from the overhead projector burn white spots into the center of his vision, and the anxiety drags black fog to it’s edges. A wood inlay on the podium under his white-knuckled grip opens like a zipper and says something about scatter plots and numbered dials in his own voice. Someone from the committee calls his name, but Carlos can’t answer, because there’s a buzzing in his limbs and in his ears and in his trachea, and the voice calls his name again and Carlos can’t see who it is through the spots his overworked photoreceptors have left as they scramble to re-polarize, and they call his name _again_ , and-
> 
> “Carlos,” Cecil repeats again, and leans his full body weight on top of Carlos’ back, “ _Breathe_ , sweetheart, you need to _breathe_.”
> 
> The pressure helps. The pressure always helps. It is counter-intuitive, but many things in science are. It should be more difficult for his ribs to expand with a fully grown man draped over his back, but Carlos has never breathed easier than when Cecil’s weight is pressing down on him.
> 
> Carlos breathes. It’s stuttering, and choked, and feels absolutely wretched, but Cecil is counting steadily into his right ear and pressing his chest against his back and holding his hair out of his face.
> 
> “You love him,” Cecil says after a minute, picking up right where he left off as he straightens up off of Carlos and returns to rubbing along his spine. Carlos pushes up onto his hands, and then pushes away from the sink and turns into Cecil’s chest.
> 
> “You love him, and would do anything to keep him safe,” Cecil’s chest vibrates at him.
> 
> “Is that what I’m doing?” Carlos croaks, “Loving him? This feels like adrenaline and cortisol, not dopamine and oxytocin.”
> 
> Cecil shushes him. There’s the press of a cool kiss to the top of his head. Carlos feels the sweat on his skin evaporating, feels the pounding in his temples settle in its stead. Cecil hums; holds him for a minute. As if breaking the silence will drive Carlos back to the sink, as if speaking will shatter him. Carlos watches the crystal in the window spin lazily.
> 
> “I don’t think fear is the antithesis of love,” Cecil finally says, as soft as his hand is as it slides into Carlos’ own, “I think love is a precursor to fear. With nothing to love, what do we have to fear? We do not fear loss because the gaping hole left in an absence is inherently filled by horror. We fear loss because that negative space was once a _home_ , for something that we ached for, yearned for. Nothingness itself is not terrifying. It’s that we cared for something that once belonged in the nothing. We do not fear death for ourselves, dear Carlos, we fear death for the devastation of those left in the rubble behind it.”
> 
> Cecil shoots for comfort and lands among the morbid, but the white spots like stars in Carlos’ vision are fading. Cecil trails a finger over the edge of a puckered scar stretched over the fourth vertebra in Carlos’ neck, where the skin had fused from the heat of the missile that hit him. Carlos’ neurons shudder and burst. Descent. Discovery. Pain. Pinpricks. Bursts. Burns. Falling. Blood. Feathers. Bandages. Speed dial. Car hood. Lights.
> 
> Subway. Condos. Teeth. Doors. No doors. Sand. Other things. Many, many other things. Would Carlos have felt fear, if Cecil had not been there too?
> 
> “There is so much to fear in Night Vale,” Cecil says, and he’s whispering now, and Carlos reaches up to cradle his face in his free hand, “But only because there is so much to _love_.”

* * *

There is so much to fear in Night Vale.

Carlos knows this. He knows that everyone around him understands this, too. But he was an outsider, once. It takes a long time for him to learn that in Night Vale, they don’t show fear. It takes him even longer to understand why they don’t. Even longer than _that_ , nearly three full years, to be both accurate and scientific, for him to realize he probably shouldn’t show it either. He thinks he’s still learning _why_ he shouldn’t, even now. 

The thing is, fear is a red paint bullseye, still dripping gore-like into the carpet. The street cleaners can smell it. The librarians can smell it. The Glow Cloud can smell it. Carlos knows that Cecil can smell it, too (as their relationship has grown he has first overlooked, then resolutely ignored, and finally accepted and buried the implications of this deep in his chest next to his heart the last time the Night Vale Medical Board mandated he check to see if he was heart healthy). But the target is not always painted on your own back. 

Esteban is a bright spot. He burns like a beacon in Carlos’ Night Vale. When he smiles, the shape of his grin is branded into Carlos’ retinas as his photoreceptors are wiped out. He sees the after-image of his cowlick, of his fingers, of the curves of his cheeks and arms and feet every time he looks away. A silhouette transposed over the city. 

He is shining, and resplendent, and Carlos is blessed, and terrified. 

Esteban is so visible to him, and maybe, to others. He is a light in the shadowed street corners and dark alleys of Night Vale. It is too easy for Carlos to imagine him in the crosshairs of a gun. It is too easy to imagine him _hunted._

* * *

> "You just let them go?" Carlos doesn’t yell, or scream, but says, loudly, across the kitchen. Much too loudly. It’s late. Esteban is already down in his crib.
> 
> "What was I supposed to do?" Cecil counters, not nearly as loudly, still untying his shoes. He doesn’t sound angry, or confrontational, or even really confused. It sounds rhetorical. Or maybe flat? Uninterested? Shocked? Carlos can’t always tell, and it itches. Burrows into his skin and whispers that he was made for data and charts and not for people, not for any of them, definitely not this person. He knows not to listen, and he doesn’t, but conversation is still sometimes akin pulling those stubborn, squirming thoughts out of his flesh with pliers.
> 
> "I-I don't-" Carlos starts, and then buries his fingers into his hair. The thoughts itch; he digs. "I don't know! But not that! They're _the Mink!_ "
> 
> Cecil crosses the kitchen and waits. He stands less than a foot away, but doesn’t touch. He doesn’t reach out, and he doesn’t say anything, and Carlos loves him so much he aches.
> 
> They stand there for a minute, or maybe an hour, or maybe a day. Cecil’s watch _ticks_ softly in the silence, and Carlos doesn’t count the seconds. He just digs and tugs and pulls himself back together from the edges. 
> 
> “Hands,” Carlos eventually says, sharper than he means to. “Please,” He adds, softer. 
> 
> Cecil smiles. Holds out his hands, palms up. Carlos lets his own hover above them. He extends a finger to gently trace the band of Cecil’s wedding ring, and it’s fine, until he slips off of it and the skin-to-skin contact singes him like a live socket. He hisses, and jerks back.
> 
> “I’m sorry,” he mutters. Cecil moves back out of his space, and twists to lean casually against the counter. 
> 
> “It’s fine, bunny, you know there’s nothing to apologize for,” Cecil says. He pauses, and then continues. “I know what made you upset, but do you want to tell me why? Can I try to make this better?”
> 
> Carlos leans against the counter next to him. They both hold tension in their shoulders. They both wish these things were easier. They both stare at the fridge. It growls softly, like it does on most Thursdays. 
> 
> Carlos tells himself they’re not fighting, because they’re not. It still feels awful. 
> 
> "I just…” He trails off, stares at the fridge for another few seconds as it stops growling and instead oozes some sort of orange slime from the freezer, which it usually doesn’t do until Saturdays. “I just... think it would have been interesting, scientifically speaking, to look into their thoughts. See if they knew anything... New. New to me."
> 
> "I think it would have been interesting, journalistically speaking, to do that too."
> 
> Carlos groans. Cecil raises an eyebrow, which Carlos can read even on a bad day. Even on a day like today. _What?_ it says, _What do you mean?_
> 
> “It’s not you,” He tugs at the sleeves of his lab coat, feels the fabric pull taut over his shoulders. “Scientifically speaking, I didn’t say what’s really wrong. It’s several standard units of difficulty harder than usual to say what I actually want to.”
> 
> Cecil waits for him. Carlos tugs some more.
> 
> “I don’t want to fight,” He finally manages. It’s still not the root of it, but it’s a true statement.
> 
> “We’re not fighting,” Cecil assures him, “You’re upset because of a decision I made, and you matter to me, so I’m unhappy that I caused this. We’re talking about it so that- ”
> 
> “We will both feel better, yes” Carlos doesn’t snip, but he does say, curtly. “Scientifically, I know that,” He says, softening his tone again.
> 
> “But….” Cecil says, drawing out the vowel long and lilting. 
> 
> “But,” Carlos says, “emotionally, not so much. You can run tests on emotions - you remember when I tested Intern Ash to see if they actually felt fear? That was fascinating, I have no idea how their sympathetic nervous system is structured to produce such varied results! But you can’t apply logical reasoning to emotions. Emotions are only scientific in some ways.”
> 
> “So this is mostly anxiety? Or…?”
> 
> “I think that’s an accurate description of the emotions I’m experiencing, yes.”
> 
> Cecil hums for a moment, drumming his fingers on the countertop. Carlos tugs at his sleeve. The fridge vibrates, and then makes a series of clicking and chirping noises that Carlos should care about, but really doesn’t. Not right now. 
> 
> “I’m afraid,” Carlos finally, blessedly, gets out of his mouth, “I’m afraid that the Mink knows, because knowing is very powerful, and knowing can be converted into things that are equally as powerful, but more dangerous. I am afraid that they know.”
> 
> _And that others may know, and seek and stalk and scour. Hunt._
> 
> “Oh, bunny,” Cecil breathes out in the exact opposite manner from the way he breathed out the chlorine gas at the Night Vale Aquatic Recreation and Megalodon Rehabilitation Complex three weeks ago, “Can I try to help?” 
> 
> The asking is new. They’d talked about it. Sometimes, Cecil speaks in sentences so long that Carlos’ ears give up trying to decipher them and take an early lunch. “Oh, bugger it,” they say, climbing down his neck, and he has to fish them out from under the couch every time. It’s exhausting. Sometimes, he just wants Cecil to listen. This time is not one of those times.
> 
> “Please,” He says, weakly, and switches to tugging at the other sleeve. 
> 
> "There is no better way to make sure a secret stays out of Night Vale than to literally move it out of Night Vale,” Cecil begins, “No secret held by a human tongue is truly secure, not with the incessant, seeking eyes of this community. They are never-blinking, and eternal, and armed to the lashes with hypnosis, and Brainwave Transposition Rays, and extremely curious young children who keep asking 'why?' to literally everything you say until you give up and tell them the truth because if they ask you 'why?' one more time you might break down into tears.”
> 
> Carlos snorts, despite himself. They’ve been at the _'why?'_ stage for about a month now. Carlos has told Cecil it will last years. Cecil had looked stricken. Carlos had reminded him that he’s a journalist, and that he’s a scientist, and that Esteban is their son. Inquisitiveness is a family trait.
> 
> “I think the Mink leaving Night Vale is for the best. Also," Cecil continues, and then turns so he’s facing Carlos again. “Also, this isn’t very scientific, but it’s important to you that nobody finds out. And I… I wouldn't let you down like that."
> 
> "I know."
> 
> And he does know. He’s afraid, but fear is not the antithesis to trust any more than it is the antithesis to love. He trusts Cecil, more than he trusts anything. 
> 
> “I do think that fact is very scientific. While it is true that past performance is not a predictor of future results, I think there is significant and satisfactory evidence to suggest that no, you wouldn’t - you don’t - let me down like that.”
> 
> Cecil grins at him, and blows a couple air kisses at him. Carlos grins back and mimes catching them and holding them to his cheeks. It feels nice, scientifically speaking. It feels grounding. Cecil exhales, the last of the tension in his shoulders dropping. He chuckles.
> 
> "It did feel _really_ good to tell someone, though."
> 
> Carlos laughs, despite himself. "I know. I love you."
> 
> "I love you too."

* * *

It does feel good to tell people.

Carlos knows this. He knows that Cecil understands this, too. Because they did tell people. They _do_ tell people. Carlos called his abuela, and his parents, and his sister and his sister and his brother and his sibling, and his cousins and his aunts and uncles and by the time he ran out of family to call, Cecil was spread out on the couch, exhausted. He complained about the strain all that conversation would have on his vocal cords, and Carlos made them both tea with cinnamon and piloncillo.

They had Abby and Steve and Janice over for dinner. Steve hugged Cecil, _twice_ , and Carlos watched the way Abby and Janice’s eyes lit up. They find Dana sitting under a tree in Mission Grove Park, avoiding any and all duties that could be interpreted even slightly as mayoral in nature, and tell her. She grabs both of Cecil’s hands and drags him into a sort of jig in the blinding sun. Carlos tells Erika, the one made of an infinite number of spinning, burning loops and coils, because Cecil wanted to tell Josie alone. Erika burns impossibly brighter in congratulations. Cecil throws white carnations, for grandmotherhood, over the parched ground of the Night Vale Sculpture Garden where Josie’s ashes were scattered, and then places dahlias over them, because Josie would have hated the dull monochromaticity. 

Now, they even tell people they don’t know. If they see Esteban and they ask. He and Cecil are fairly well known in Night Vale, and they’re an active family. Across town, the sidewalk concrete is bleached white in the desert heat under his sandals and Cecil has several dozen little melanin-spot sun kisses dotting his cheeks. Often, he has a comparable number of son kisses dotting them as well. And since acknowledging things - primarily angels - saved them less than three years ago, people are sometimes inquisitive. Even if they’re not scientists, nor journalists, nor sons of scientists and journalists.

They tell people, and Carlos watches eyes light up and sunlight dance over Dana’s curls and holy light flare hotter and bright gerbera petals fall onto bare earth. He watches Esteban’s light seep into every nook and cranny of the town and it’s citizens. He watches it spill into the streets and avenues and settle into the crooks of elbows and cradles of arms and the depths of hearts. He watches how Esteban laughs as Michelle and Maureen, crouched down to his eye level, try to convince him that no, he actually _doesn’t_ like Charlotte Diamond. He wonders if it hurts them to look at him that closely, like looking into the sun.

There is only one exception, truly. There is only one place, although there are many times, where they don’t tell people, and the light doesn’t spread. They don’t say it on the radio.

They don’t tell Night Vale.

* * *

> “I’m not upset, Ceec,” Carlos says into the space between them. He’s leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, and Cecil is leaning heavily on the counter a few meters away from him. He’s still dressed for work in some platinum off-shoulder number and tights covered in what are _probably_ just googly eyes, and Carlos doesn’t need to understand radio business attire to find it, scientifically speaking, very attractive. 
> 
> “But _I am,_ ” Cecil growls, and grips tighter to the edge of the countertop, “I can’t believe I would say something so stupid! Really, of _all_ the costs of seeing live theatre, I _needed_ to mention a babysitter?”
> 
> “Ceec-” Carlos starts, but is immediately cut off and Cecil spins away from the counter and continues, his voice shifting into an upset whine.
> 
> “I’m a radio professional! I should be able to carefully select which of my words I want to use, and deliver them and only them! Oh, careless Cecil, careless, foolish, reckless Cecil-”
> 
> “ _Excuse me,_ ” Carlos interrupts, raising his voice above Cecil’s own wailing, “But that is my husband you’re talking about, so I would strongly encourage you to stop saying those things about him.”
> 
> Cecil shoots Carlos a look that he doesn’t understand in the slightest. Carlos arches an eyebrow back at him. _What?_ Cecil makes a series of frustrated hand gestures, which Carlos still doesn’t understand. Then he presses both hands over his face, his palms against his eyelids and fingers gripping into his hairline.
> 
> They're both tense, for a moment, and the only noise is the silence of both of them holding their breaths. Cecil throws his head back, his elbows tilted towards the ceiling, and Carlos pulls away from the doorway like his sternum is connected to Cecil with a string. 
> 
> _Thud thud thud,_ says Carlos' pulse rushing through his ears. 
> 
> Their held breath says nothing, and neither does Cecil.
> 
> Then, all at once like the final crack before the calving of a glacier, he breaks with a wounded noise, and Carlos has closed the space between them before he’s even realized he’s moved. He’s hovering inches from Cecil’s front, staring up at the exposed line of his throat where he can watch Cecil’s pulse throb along countercurrent to his own.
> 
> “Can I touch you?” Carlos asks, only slightly frantic. It’s a whisper, a harsh juxtaposition to their raised voices before. Cecil nods, stiffly, like the rotation of his atlas against his axis has frozen with his words. This close, Carlos can see him shaking, see the tension in his limbs and the white-knuckled grip he has in his own hair pulled messy and mussed from his ponytail. 
> 
> He reaches up, and presses the flat of his hands on Cecil’s shoulders, and drags them down his chest, over his collarbones and his pecs until they come to rest over his bottom ribs, above the soft give of his stomach. Cecil inhales in a rush, and Carlos presses back as he feels his body swell with it. Cecil makes another noise, a little weaker, and collapses into him, arms leaving his own face to grasp blindly at Carlos’ shoulders.
> 
> “Oh, honey,” Carlos soothes without saying much at all, “Darling Cecil.”
> 
> Cecil makes the same wounded noise again, and digs his fingers into Carlos’ shoulders. For a few minutes, they stand still and listen to the buzz of the kitchen lights, just holding each other. It’s a sort of grounding ritual.
> 
> Cecil eventually sighs, and drops even further so his forehead is supported on Carlos’ shoulder. Carlos hums in response, and then continues where they left off.
> 
> “Correct me if I’m wrong, sweetie, because you know yourself best,” Carlos runs his hands up Cecil’s biceps, feels the silky thread of the dress bunch up under his palms as he goes, “But… are you actually upset? Or are you scared that _I’m_ going to be upset? Are you protecting yourself, because my anger will hurt less if you’re punishing yourself first? You know you do that, sometimes.”
> 
> Cecil hums, but it’s noncommittal. He lists against Carlos, like his emotion has sapped all the strength from his limbs. Carlos grasps his shoulders and turns him gently, setting him so that he’s leaning against the counter, before leaning in to press their bodies together once more, embracing Cecil so that he isn’t responsible for his own weight. 
> 
> “Is this…” Carlos struggles to find the correct words, and presses his hands more firmly into the planes of Cecil’s back, “Is this because of what you said before? After the Mink?”
> 
> “About not letting you down?”
> 
> It’s technically a question, but it answers everything Carlos was asking and more. Cecil sounds small, and scared, and ashamed, and Carlos never wanted - never _wants_ \- to be the reason that Cecil’s inflection sounds like a cheap chipped mimicry of his usual voice.
> 
> “Oh honey, no,” Carlos breathes out, “You couldn’t possibly let me down. Especially not with something like this. Everybody makes mistakes sometimes; human error is unavoidable. Don’t… don’t punish yourself for being human.”
> 
> “It was a decision we made together,” Cecil mumbles, “A really difficult decision that we made together.”
> 
> “Yes,” Carlos agrees, “It was. But… Can I explain something to you? Or are you too tired? We can go to bed.”
> 
> “Mm-mmm,” Cecil shakes his head against Carlos’ shoulder, “‘m fine.”
> 
> “Right,” Carlos says, and then takes a deep breath in.
> 
> “I’m serious when I say human error is unavoidable, Cecil. Every experiment I have ever done, I go into knowing that errors will occur. It’s part of the scientific method! When your results don’t match your hypothesis, you rework the experiment and try again. This is no different. I… I can try to put it into words you’d use. I think that would help.” 
> 
> He pauses, still running his hands up and down Cecil’s arms, and hears his smile creep into his voice as he continues, “I know you remember when we first met. You called me perfect. You _still_ call me perfect. Perfectly imperfect. You called me perfect when I forgot our dates because I was working, and when you had to drag me out of that condo. You call me perfect when I chew too loudly, and you call me perfect when I forget to eat or sleep for thirty hours straight. You call me perfect when I’m the one crying in the kitchen. In all my imperfect moments, Cecil, you still think I’m perfect, because I am human, and part of being human is having those moments.”
> 
> Carlos gently pushes on Cecil’s shoulders, pulling away from him enough that he lifts his head. Carlos slides a hand against his cheek and runs his thumb over his cheekbone. 
> 
> “Cecil, this is true for you too. I know this was a mistake. You’re human, you’re perfect, and I love you. I am not upset.”
> 
> Cecil blinks down at him, owlish and still pale, but he nods. He leans into Carlos’ hand on his cheek and intertwines his fingers with the other.
> 
> “I love you too,” he says, soft, and Carlos pushes up onto his tiptoes to kiss him gently, barely a brush of their lips together, “I’m just… I’m concerned - no. I’m afraid.”
> 
> “It’ll be okay,” Carlos breathes; presses another kiss against his mouth, “Rework and try again. We’ve got this, baby. You’re a wonderful father.”
> 
> “Carlos!” Cecil says, long and drawn and high-pitched in the way he does when he’s flustered.
> 
> “It’s true! Scientifically-”
> 
> “Okay, okay! Alright,” Cecil chuckles, and brings their joined hands up to his mouth to kiss Carlos’ wedding band, “I’m a wonderful father. And you’re a _spectacular_ one.”

* * *

They are wonderful fathers.

Carlos knows this. He knows that Cecil understands this, too. 

Esteban’s innocent laughter spills out into Night Vale as a glowing light beneath a locked door in a dark hallway, and Cecil is afraid. His eyelashes bat against his cheeks as a blinking light, up on a mountain, and Carlos is afraid. Carlos knows fear. He knows that Cecil understands it, too. They only fear because they love. 

And oh, do they _love_.

**Author's Note:**

> I started out wanting to write Carlos’ reaction to Cecil telling the Mink their secret and I… I did that? But this turned into more of an experiment with a.) style, b.) how they communicate given that they’re both neurodivergent (to me), and c.) trying to get Carlos to sound like Carlos. Don’t even look at Cecil, I have ZERO idea how to write him. Anyways. 
> 
> Carlos is canonically autistic and I imagine him as being ADHD and having pretty severe anxiety as well, and I see Cecil as also being ADHD. Re: ADHD, Carlos deals mostly with the hyperactivity/inattention/hyperfocus aspects and Cecil deals a lot more with the social stuff, particularly RSD, although he does fixates on things and is crazy forgetful. Neurodivergent kings. I’m ADHD myself and I have anxiety, but I’m not autistic so if I messed up anywhere please let me know.
> 
> I’m on [tumblr](http://kurofae.tumblr.com) and I have [art](http://kurofae.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art), if you wanna check that out.


End file.
